Walking A Line
by Nine-Dead-Alps
Summary: Whilst out on a run into a nearby town for supplies to help the dying last member of her group, Billie-Jo runs into a few problems and the Dixon brothers aren't exactly knights in shining armour.
1. Shoot the Runner

Author's Note

I know, I know, I should be concentrating on my Final Fantasy XII fanfiction but I've been on a bit of a The Walking Dead binge lately and the growing temptation to do a Daryl/OC story was starting to distract me! I know this has been done to death already but he's just so damn cool!

For those of you who aren't familiar with my writing style I will warn you I tend to jump from 1st to 3rd POV at times and it takes a very _long_ time for my OCs to become romantically involved with the chosen character because I love building sexual tension.

Prologue takes place before the Dixons join the Atlanta camp.

Disclaimer

I don't own The Walking Dead. I do own Billie-Jo, my OC.

* * *

**Walking A Line**

_'Ain't no turning back 'cause I'm walking the line.'- Walking A Line, Foo Fighters_

_'Stolen friends and disease, operator please can you patch me back to my mind?'- Little Black Submarines, The Black Keys. _

**Prologue: Shoot the Runner**.

"Fuck! Come on." The words curled from my lips in a muted hiss.

I shifted my weight slightly to alleviate the steady burning ache that gnawed at my legs. It suggested I had been crouched behind the charred husk that had previously been a car for too long now. Lifting my head slightly to peek over the puckered car hood it seemed not much was moving in the little town of Crowlby. Its once idyllic setting had been reduced to dusty, litter strewed streets, abandoned cars and broken windowpanes.

The firework should have gone off by now. I huffed an irritated sigh and pulled myself to my feet. There was no breeze gracing the soupy summer heat today, the cigarette I had fashioned into a slow fuse must have burnt out because of this. This wasn't the first time Georgia's heat-wave had hindered me. I moved to step around the car when something stirring further down the street caused me to cut my actions short. It was the familiar awkward shuffle of one of _them_. I gasped and hurriedly sunk to squat behind the car again, heart hammering out a faster beat against my ribcage. They had been around for weeks now but that didn't mean they still didn't scare the shit out of me. Bellamy was always referring to them as _Rotters_, _Dead Heads_ or _Coffin Dodgers_ instead of their true name in hope to lessen their now never-ending, threatening presence. Bellamy…

The distant whoosh of a firework rocket soaring into the stretch of blue overhead jerked me from my worry. It burst into a bright bloom of orange and reds before just as quickly fizzling out leaving behind a rapidly fading plume of smoke. The blast was almost heart juddering in the sinister silence that masked the town. I inched my head up so I could once again snatch a sight of the street. The Rotter that had been meandering around some of the domestic debris sluggishly turned its head in the direction of the noise before lumbering off to investigate further. I blew air out of my cheeks in relief. The only good thing about them was that they were predictable.

I waited a few minutes more to see if any others followed suit but the street was still once more. Content it was safe I slipped out from my hiding place and briskly walked down the street. Reaching a hand back, my fingers groped for the crowbar that was jutting awkwardly from my backpack. I tugged it free. I must have been on Crowlby's main street as all the usual establishments were dotted either side of its road. I hurriedly looked them over until I found the one I was after- the pharmacy.

Its brickwork and hand-painted sign matched the quant charm of the neighbouring shops yet as I neared I saw the spider web-like crack that was decorating the bottom of the pane of glass in its door. I curled my fingers loosely around the door's handle as I squinted past the glass at the gloom lurking at the back end of the shop, behind the counter. Nothing moved. I pushed the door open to be greeted by the pleasant chime of a bell. My eyes darted up to see the small bell still swaying slightly overhead. Well, I guess if there was anything back there I definitely had its attention now. My hand strayed from the door handle to grip the crowbar. I hovered in the entrance, weapon clutched tightly in both hands, bated breath. Nothing moved. I entered and quickly paced towards the rear of the shop, my footsteps sounding too loud in the lull. Slipping behind the counter, I shrugged off one of the backpack's straps and unzipped it whilst scanning the shelves for things I was in need of.

The pharmacy hadn't been cleaned out which was a pleasant surprise. As soon as people figured that looting superfluous items such as plasma TVs and designer jeans wasn't going to get them far in this new world, they began to hit supermarkets, pharmacies, camping supply shops and gun shops. Crowlby was small, more of a hamlet than a town and slap bang in the middle of nowhere so it must have been overlooked by other survivors. Despite my luck I wasn't going to celebrate just yet. Uncharted territory never went undiscovered for long and the firework I had set off as a distraction for the Coffin Dodgers could just as easily ensnare the attention of others. I began to stuff items into the bag. Hydrogen peroxide, gauze, surgical tape, iodine, antiseptic cream, ibuprofen, gentamicin, rifaximin, meropenem, amoxicillin, ciprofloxacin-any antibiotics I could get my hands on.

By the time I had raided the shelves the backpack was brimming with boxes, blister packs and plastic bottles full of pills. I slung it on and marched out back onto the main street again, glancing around for any sign of Rotters. There were none. Instead there were three guys further down the street checking out a shop window. Their heads snapped round when the cheery chime of the pharmacy's bell rang out upon my exit. I froze.

We stood there for a beat or two dumbly staring at each other and then my mind jerked out of its shock of seeing living, breathing people. I hastily grasped the grip of the Colt M1911 that was stuffed in the waistband of my jeans and yanked it free before pointing it at the group with a flick of my hand. They flinched, quickly dropping down behind a car that was haphazardly parked across the pavement. Turning on my heel my feet took flight as I dashed away from them and out of Crowlby hoping my bluff had bought me enough time to put some distance between us. I fumbled and attempted to shove the gun back in my jeans. I wished it were loaded.

Running was hard work in this heat and not to mention I hadn't had a proper meal in days. It wasn't long before my chest heaved, legs burned and dots began to blemish my vision. I pushed on, not stopping until I reached my bike that I had left on the outskirts of town. I shoved the crowbar back into the backpack and swung my leg over the Triumph Bonneville. It rasped and spluttered a few times before finally starting up with a roar. I chanced a glance behind me to see if they were in pursuit. They were. I took off.

Roads were no longer easy to navigate due to them being bogged down with cars, vans and the occasional decomposing corpse. It made sense to travel by motorbike but the Triumph was heavy and cumbersome. I needed to check it over, it was taking too long to fire up lately. I snaked round an over turned car.

They had to be the same group. All guys, all armed. This wasn't good. Either they were branching out to explore new territory and our meeting was pure chance or they were looking for us probably to finish what they started. We'd have to run again but with hardly any supplies, no ammo, me with my crowbar, Bellamy with his hammer we weren't going to make it far especially with the state that Bellamy was in. The niggling worry that had been budding since my little jaunt into Crowlby suddenly exploded into full blown panic at our chances. This wasn't good. We were in trouble.

I turned my head to snatch a glimpse of the road behind me, it showed no signs of anyone following me. I returned my attention back to the terrain ahead of me in time to see a Rotter lazily lurch from the car it had been propped up against and attempt to grab at me. I swerved, a yelp coming from my lips. I clipped the bumper of an adjacent car and quickly attempted to outmanoeuvre another that was blocking my route. The bike quickly spun out of control under my amateurish attempts at driving and before I knew it I was on the ground. Dust kicked up from the crash masked the air but it was clear I had run the Triumph off the road and was now sprawled out on the grassy slope that lined its edge. The bike's engine was still rumbling as it lay a few feet away from me on its side. It soon choked and died. My leg felt like it was on fire. I lifted my head to see that the denim of my jeans had been rubbed away along with a few layers of skin. Road rash. I groaned and allowed my head to drop once more, hoping to catch my breath.

A groan rang out in response. My head jerked up to see the Rotter that had caused my crash was slowly stumbling his way down the bank to me. I yelped and attempted to put some distance between us by scrambling back. My limbs were sluggish and stung with each endeavour at moving them. He advanced, a hand already outstretched and swiping. I fumbled for the crowbar to see it was over by the Triumph amongst the supplies that littered the crash site. I hadn't even noticed that the backpack was no longer on my back but sat gaping beside the bike, one of the straps ripped off. The Rotter groaned louder now as if the anticipation of sinking its teeth into my flesh was becoming overwhelming. My fingers went to my belt and attempted to grab the hilt of the knife that was sheath there. After a couple of tugs it came free from its leather sheath. I clumsily repositioned my fingers so that I held it with a firmer grip before attempting to pull my battered body up. He was closer now and sagged to his knees so he could get at me. I shrieked and kicked at him but his putrid hands were on me. I continued to squirm and kick before summoning the strength needed to spring up so that we were face to face, on our knees. His hands tightened their grip, one hand at my throat, the other seizing my free arm. How could something so decrepit be so strong?

I lurched forward and slammed the knife into its head. He suddenly went still and slumped forwards. I sat back and I took in quick snatches or air, my hand still holding the knife's grip. There was no blood. There never was any blood when you stabbed an older Rotter, just a gloopy brown tar. My eyes flickered from my knife to the head it was still embedded in. Brittle, blond hair was sparsely covering its skull. I was just thankful it had bowed its head so I didn't have to look at its eyes. I yanked the knife free, gagging at the gore covering its blade and the smell of the now unmoving corpse. The Rotter swayed and fell to its side, its tongue lolling out of its mouth, cloudy eyes open and vacant. I swallowed some air in hope to still the churning in my stomach. It didn't work. The merge contents of my stomach vaulted up. I always puked after killing them, Bellamy never failed to find it funny.

I dragged the back of my hand across my mouth when I heard it. The far away hum of a car. Suddenly the reason why I was fleeing in the first place flashed in my mind. Despite my injuries, I clambered up and hobbled about stuffing the broken rucksack with supplies. I bent over the Triumph stripped it of its saddlebags before limping off into the woods as far as I could and collapsed behind a tree.

* * *

"Hold up." Merle barked.

Daryl complied and slammed on the breaks causing the pick-up truck to jerk to a stop. He turned his head to see his older brother was leaning out of the open window, his attention to something on the roadside.

"What?" He grunted.

It was bad enough they had been chugging along in the battered truck with no air conditioning and the radio only singing out a grim public broadcast on loop but at this current slower pace the journey was becoming unbearable.

"Don't remember those being there when we came through this way the other day." He swung the door open and got out.

Daryl craned his neck to see what he was talking about. Skid marks marred the asphalt. He sighed and killed the engine. Supplies were running low and Merle stopping to investigate every potential lead was costing them gas.

"Jackpot!" He heard him holler from further down the bank.

He climbed out of the truck and paced to the lip of the road, adjusting the strap of his crossbow so it hung more comfortably against his back. The grassy slope that snaked down from the road showed that marks had been caused by a motorbike.

"That a Triumph?" He made his way down the slope with quick steps, passing his brother who was nudging a Walker with a hole in its head with his boot. He sunk to his haunches as he looked the bike over. "Same model. This is the first bit a luck we've had all week. It's kinda banged up but I bet I could strip it down." He placed his hand on the bike's black tank where some of the paint had been scraped off. His brow furrowed. He looked over his shoulder at his companion who was currently observing him.

"Bet that thing's still warm." Merle said.

"How'd ya know?"

"This fella's just been done in and looks like whoever stuck him didn't have a strong stomach."

Daryl rose and approached the corpse at his brother's feet. There was puke splattered on the grass next to it. He shrugged the crossbow strap off his back and approached the fringe of the woods. Sure enough it looked like someone had slunk off into the trees and judging from their tracks they were injured.

"Wanna go after 'em?"

"They ain't gone far." Merle strolled past and entered the woods, dry leaves crunching underfoot.

"You think they're the one behind that shot we heard earlier?" He followed, crossbow raised.

"I told you it weren't no shot. Sounded like a firework."

"Whatever." He sullenly mumbled his eyes still darting about the woodland floor for tracks.

Merle suddenly stopped and gestured at a distant tree. He saw it straight away, a shoulder peeking out from behind the tree's thick trunk. Whoever they were they were sat with their back against the tree.

"Ain't much point in hiding. We found your bike, you gotta be in pretty bad shape." His brother called out.

Silence gripped the air, the odd bird call breaking up the void of voices.

"I'm armed." Called out a girlish squeak.

"Well then, better ditch the gun and come out with your hands were we can see 'em. My brother here is quite the sharp shooter. You ain't gonna be much of a match for him."

She didn't answer. She didn't move. Merle turned his head to look back at him and nodded in the direction of the girl. Quickly understanding what his brother was implying he do, Daryl hissed,

"Come on, man. You know chicks can't shoot for shit."

"She's gotta know we mean business."

"Bitch probably ain't even packing." He muttered before taking aim on the tree that neighboured the one she was cowering behind.

It was slightly further ahead than her so the bolt would go whistling past her. He fired and the bolt hit its target with a satisfying 'thunk'. A startled gasp rasped out from behind the nearby tree.

"You gonna come on out or is my brother gonna start aiming for closer targets?"

Daryl loaded another bolt onto the crossbow, pulling the weapon's string back until it was taut. He shouldered the crossbow again and waited.

"Okay, okay! I'm coming out."

She pulled herself up and limped into view, her hands held up. One loosely held a crowbar. She hadn't been lying about the gun. Its grip was poking out from the waistband of her jeans, it looked to be a Colt M1911. The only other visible weapon on her was a USMA KA-BAR knife that hung from her belt. That was probably what had caused the hole in the Walker's head.

"You packing a lot of heat for a lil'one." Merle smirked.

She continued to shuffle forward. As she neared Daryl noticed the extent of her injuries. The jeans she wore were torn and ripped all the way up to the knee on one leg, revealing a sizable dirt encrusted scrape. Skin was also missing on her elbow and cheek on the same side.

"Far enough. Drop the crowbar and put your hands on your head."

She did as she was ordered, her eyes flickering back and forth between the two of them. She was shaking. Merle stepped up to her and plucked the pistol from her jeans. He skilfully ejected the clip. He turned to look back at him, a smug smile tugging at his lips.

"Shit ain't even loaded." He replaced the clip and shoved the gun into the back of his own jeans before bending to pick up the crowbar. He looked it over with indifference and quickly shifted his focus to the KA-BAR on her belt. He moved to remove the sheath from her belt but she ducked back a few steps.

"No, please... It was my Pa's."

"Finders, keepers. Now it's mine." He yanked the sheath off her belt before she had chance to evade him again. "Got me the inkling that you're holding out on us here, missy. You got any other supplies back behind that tree?"

"Don't have anything else. I was just on a run looking for supplies but everywhere's been raided."

"You the one that set that firework off?" Daryl asked.

"What firework?" She didn't even miss a beat but her eyes were wide, a sure fire way of knowing she was bullshitting them.

"Seems to me that if you're that tooled up just for a run you got stuff worth scrapping for." Merle loped off to where she had previously been hiding.

Daryl noticed her face fall before she turned to watch the older man duck behind the tree.

"Well lookey what we have here!" He called. He plucked the used crossbow bolt from the tree trunk it was currently embedded in and quickly returned with a torn up backpack and a saddle bag for the Triumph. He dumped them on the ground, tossed Daryl his bolt back before beginning to undo the buckle of the saddlebag. It was full of spare pieces for the bike, wrenches and tools to fit them. "Guess you don't have to strip the bike after all. We got everything we need right here." He delved into the backpack to pull out medical supplies.

"Take anything you want- take the parts, my weapons but please, I'm begging you, I need those." She pleaded in a thin voice. She looked on the verge of tears.

"Finders, keepers. 'Sides I don't take well to being lied to."

"Let her have 'em. We don't need 'em."

"Better to be prepared." He shrugged as he continued to rummage through the contents.

"Please. I _need_ them." She choked back a sob.

She was so scrawny and with those pleading, brown doe-eyes of hers she reminded Daryl of one of those stray dogs he used to see scuttling round the back of the local diner in search of scraps.

"Merle." He drawled in a low tone. He was attempting to sound warning but it came off more like whining.

"Quit your bitching both of y'all." Merle snapped. He shoved the supplies back into the backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He cast off the crowbar with a swoop of his hand. It clattered to the floor a few feet away. He then bent to snatch up the saddle bag. "I ain't leaving you with nothin'. You can keep your water and your crowbar. And I'm no longer interested in your bike so consider yourself lucky. "

He stalked off back out towards the road. Consumed by despair the girl sank to her knees. Daryl lingered for a moment before lowering his crossbow and turning to head after his brother.

"That wasn't cool." Daryl muttered as he started up the pick-up truck.

"Pussy." Merle snorted.


	2. Skin and Bones

Author's Notes

Zombie Apocalypses do not look fun. I probably wouldn't last five minutes in one! This chapter jumps around a bit as I was just trying to show time passing before Billie comes across the Atlanta camp.

Thanks for reading! :)

Disclaimer

I don't own The Walking Dead. I do own my OC, Billie-Jo.

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**Chapter 1: Skin and Bones**

I stayed kneeling on the woodland's carpet of rotting leaves for a while, tears blurring my vision and cutting tracks through the blood and dirt that was smeared on my face. The distant growl of a car starting up stirred me from my stupor. They were leaving. I hastily pulled myself up and limped back out towards the road on unsteady feet. I squinted against the shift in light as I gazed up at the road. A blue-grey, battered pick-up truck steadily rolled by. Standing proud in the truck-bed with the sun rolling off its black and chrome body work was a customized Triumph Bonnieville on some form of chopper frame with ape hanger handlebars and a Schutzstaffel insignia decorating its tank. I stumbled up the slope to the roadside. The truck leisurely made its way along the country road, carefully weaving around stationary cars and other junk that cluttered its path. I remained there, hand shielding my eyes from the afternoon sun until its form disappeared over the horizon.

They hadn't been a part of that other group. They would have snatched me like they had Caitlyn or killed me if they had been in their ranks. No, they were just a couple of hicks who had been after supplies also. They were thieves, opportunists, assholes but not killers. I dropped my hand to my side and turned to look back down at the slope. I motioned my heavy limbs to move. The adrenaline from the crash, the Rotter stabbing and my encounter with the hicks was now seeping away, allowing the pain of my injuries to flare up in a brighter burn of agony. I staggered past the Triumph and back to the spot in the woods to retrieve what was left of my belongings.

With crowbar in one hand, half empty bottle of water in the other, I returned to the motorcycle and looked it over. It was trashed. One of the spokes was bent and oil was bleeding out onto the dry grass in a glossy black puddle. It didn't matter, there would be no possible way I'd be able to get it upright on my own as its solid mass often proved a problem for someone as brawny as Bellamy. I was going to have to hike back. My eyes once again screwed up against the sun. It was late afternoon, I was pretty sure I wouldn't make it back before nightfall but I couldn't just stay here out in the open with the Coffin Dodgers and the other group probably still searching for me.

I began to walk back in the direction of our temporary safe haven- a rundown cabin in the woods. My leg throbbed with each step and my arms were stiff as if the jolt of hitting the ground had jarred my very bones. My injured elbow was beginning to swell up and my cheekbone and jaw ached as if I had taken a crack to the face. As I made my way shuffling along the roadside looking and feeling much like one of the Dead Heads I mulled over my situation with a sour demeanour.

I knew I should have considered myself lucky that it were just some rednecks in a pick-up that had chanced across me and not the other group yet the whole encounter now began to irk me. Those bastards saw I was injured, alone and without a ride yet they robbed me blind anyway. Now, I was certain such a thing as chivalry had long died out before the populace began to croak and come back as Rotters but surely humility and compassion for your fellow man still existed? I paused by a mashed up car to catch my breath. I poured the tepid water from the bottle past my lips which were set into a grim line. Who was I fooling? With all the shit that had gone down these past couple of weeks many were favouring the 'every-man-for-himself' mentality.

The sun was slowly sinking, its descent urging me on. Being out in the open at night was just a bad idea. I had no flashlight and I sure as hell wasn't up for bumping into a lurking Rotter in my current sorry state. There were a few prowling the road. Some were even still buckled up in the seat of their cars, stirring to life as I stumbled past, their jaws snapping, arms outstretched and fingers grasping. I had to stay quiet and still, crouching behind a car whenever the mobile ones came shuffling along which only seemed to drag out my already slow journey further. As I slunk behind a van to hide from an approaching Rotter I suddenly recognised the vehicle's familiar markings, the red and white paint job- an ambulance!

I waited for the Dead Head to get a safe enough distance away before I slipped around to the van's back doors. I tugged at the handle, a quick glance around to see if the noise of my opening the door had caught any unwanted attention. The road was still, the dying sunlight diming reflecting off grimy car windshields and the constant grating song of the cicadas was all that greeted me. I pulled the door back slowly, crowbar lifted and ready if anything attempted to lurch out at me. My pulse ground out a faster beat and sweat began to prick at my hairline. The dim bowels of the ambulance were motionless. I clambered in and tugged the door shut.

It was hard to see thanks to what was left of the day's light only filtering through the van's windscreen. I rummaged about as quietly as I could, searching for the paramedic's penlight. There was stuff everywhere as if the place had already been ransacked but judging by the abundance of medical items littering the floor and that unnerving tell-tale scent of old blood and death it seemed unlikely. I finally found what I was looking for. Its small beam fluttered along the walls of the ambulance's cabin in an unsteady trail thanks to my trembling from exhaustion. My hunch had been right, dark smears decorated the blankets on the gurney as well as the doors.

I began to sift through the medical supplies. There were all kinds of useful things- adhesive bandages, scalpels, butterfly closure strips, saline, antiseptic wipes and burn dressings. There was a wide range of drugs, some of which were preloaded into syringes yet out of the long and complicated names I only recognised a few. I quickly bagged codeine, aspirin, diazepam and morphine before searching to see if there were any antibiotics to only find a few vials of ampicillin. I loaded up what had once been a paramedic's kit bag with all the things I would need to take back to Bellamy before turning my attention to my own wounds, penlight held between my teeth as I worked so both hands were free. My teeth bit down on the plastic harder whilst I cleanse what was left of the skin on my right leg and scrubbed the dirt and grit from the weeping flesh.

When I had finally finished patching myself up my t-shirt was damp with sweat and my shaking from fatigue and pain was all the stronger now. A niggling headache was grating at my mind and I took another sip of water in hope to lessen it. I was going nowhere in this state. I settled down the best I could on the gurney, crowbar clutched in both hands, medic bag at my feet and attempted to snatch a few hours of rest.

* * *

. . .

I trudged on, boots crunching on the forest's floor. The right boot was held together with surgical tape. My fall from the Triumph had caused the leather to split and my trek through the rough terrain had only caused it to tear further. My injured leg throbbed dully with ache in protest at being used. I would have to change the dressings again when I got back.

I paused, hand grasping at a tree trunk so I could let some of my weight off my bad leg. My breathing was laboured and my t-shirt was clinging to me like a second skin. I shrugged off the hiker's backpack and pulled out a few needed items from it. Unscrewing the cap to my water bottle with fumbling fingers, I then wet my lips hoping it would sooth my growing headache. I needed water. I had been searching for a stream, river, lake- anything- since sunrise but my map reading skills were non-existent and my knowledge of the wilderness amateur at best. I flipped the map out attempting to figure out where I was in the vast expanse of woodland that snaked around Atlanta. I took another sip of water before giving up with a growl and stuffing the items back into the near empty bag. The only other things in it were empty bottles to fill up with water if I did actually find what I was looking for.

There was one thing I had quickly learnt in my past few ventures out into the forest, which was that silence was never a good thing. The birdsong abruptly stopped, the hiss of the cicadas faded, even the whisper of leaves in branches above stirring at the occasional welcomed breeze paused. It was as if nature was holding its breath, very much aware of the presence of something sinister in its midst. My eyes darted about the forest, scanning the area in hurried snatches in want to locate the threat before it shambled upon me. I tugged at the crowbar that I had hooked to my belt and tried my best to push out my breath in a more regular rhythm. I wished I still had my old kit- my fireworks and cigarettes- so I could use them to distract the Dead Heads.

A dry growl came from behind me. I reeled round to see what had once been a woman walking towards me in that unsteady shuffle that they all did. She had once been young and slim but now her skin was blemished with deep, blackened wounds at her neck and shoulder. The material of her flowery summer dress stained the colour of rust with old blood. A whine flew from my throat. I wasn't healed from the crash yet and was weak from lack of water so even a walking bag of bones like this one could easily get the better of me. My mind flitted between standing my ground and fleeing, both would use up what little energy I had left. I tightened my grip on my weapon and gritted my teeth. I might as well fight now instead of further down the line when I'd been too tired from running.

Fighting a Rotter wasn't like getting in a punch-up with a regular person, they just didn't back off. They favoured to claw at you so they can draw you closer and then let their teeth do the rest. I waited for it to come nearer, weight on the balls of my feet, ignoring the grounding pain that was shooting along my injured leg. She lurched forward, hands seeking to grab fist-fulls of my t-shirt. I shifted to the side and brought up the crowbar to collide with its head. The blow hit though it was nowhere near enough to cave in the Rotter's skull. She whirled round, arms flailing, mouth open to release another of those rattling hisses. She was too close. I whipped the crowbar round, holding it horizontally to shove her back. She came at me again and I repeated my attack, the curved end of the crowbar raking along her cheekbone with a stomach turning crunch. The hit caused her head to jerk back but she still clumsily advanced.

I attempted to shove her again but my strength was failing fast and she only stumbled back a few paces. I backed up a couple of steps and swung. The Rotter still surged forward, her hands securing a grip on my t-shirt. In a flash of panic I attempted to evade her and shuffle back. My footing faltered on the uneven ground and we both tumbled to the dirt. The only thing warding off her snapping teeth was the crowbar that I had horizontally shoved up against the curve of her neck. Her hands were still at me, her fingers beginning to tear the cotton material with their tugging. I shoved and kicked at her but she was smothering me. Her weight, as slight as it was, was beginning to restrict my chest. I drew in breaths in hope to gather my strength. My nose drew in earthy scents of the dirt at my back and the stink of decay radiating off the Rotter pinning me.

I heaved with all my remaining might, using the crowbar and my legs to roll her off me with a sharp jerk. I followed through with the motion so I rolled with her. Scrambling on top so I was straddling her, I ignored the hands that were still clawing at my clothes and raised the crowbar above my head. It came down on her with a heavy thump again and again until the metal was wet with what had once been blood. Convinced she wasn't going to spring back up at me I dropped the crowbar and tried to get a good grip on my breathing. Trembling fingers tugged up my ripped t-shirt to check myself over. Despite my skin being dirty it wasn't scathed with any scratches. My eyes moved to scan the cluster of trees checking to see if our little scuffle had ensnared the attention of other Dead Heads. All was still. I moved to get off her, attempting to ignore the unease in my stomach at the smell and sight of what remained of her head. I lolled to the side, rolling off her to lie on my back at her side, looking up at the sunlight filtering through a canopy of green leaves overhead.

A long time passed before I managed to recover. I eventually dragged myself up only to fall forward once more thanks to a raging dizzy spell assaulting my already frazzled mind. I fought hard to keep whatever was left in my stomach from rushing up with steady gulps of air. I slowly rose, groping for the crowbar before beginning to walk again, meandering through the trees.

How long I had gone at this aimless pace I couldn't say but suddenly something jerked me out of my trance and halted my steps. It was the trickling sound of flowing water. I headed in its direction, my faster pace fuelled by the frantic want to quench my thirst. Snaking through the throng of pine trees was a fast flowing stream framed by slippery rocks. I sank to my knees at its edge and scooped up the water with cupped hands, sipping at it with cracked lips. I drank until my insides felt heavy before dipping each empty bottle into the flow to fill them.

I had found a source of water. I would have to mark my route back to the cabin. I would move my camp here. I could survive here. The other group would never come across me in the forest's heart. I would be ok.

Two weeks my plans were delayed thanks my constant throwing up and diarrheal because my dehydration had drove me to stupidly drink water that hadn't been purified.

* * *

. . .

I stepped back, a critical eye raking over the camouflage job I had done on the two-man tent. Its navy blue shade had been darkened further with mud and branches still heavy with foliage were laid against its sloping walls. Dry sprigs of moss that I had gathered from the rocks by the stream further blanketed any exposed flashes of blue. It would do for now. I guess I had plenty of time to improve it. My attempt at masking the structure wasn't to fool Rotters as they didn't seem to need sight to locate you. It was to hide my little haven from any curious passers-by.

I decided to spend the rest of the day focusing on strengthening the perimeter of my tiny campsite. The tent was nestled in the curve of a craggy slope, meaning with the rock at my back I didn't have to worry about being ambushed from behind. The perimeter was a slapdash attempt at building a barrier that looked inconspicuous. Large fallen branches were wedged slantways between neighbouring trees, bridging the gap in a make-shift fence. It wouldn't hold if any Coffin Dodgers did attempt to push up against it, but it would definitely slow them down enough for me to gather my things and flee.

I worked until the sky was blushing pink and the sunlight grew sparse before settling down to pick at a my dwindling supplies for today's meal. I ate half a tin of canned peaches and gnawed on the last strip of beef jerky. My water and shelter problems were fixed, now all I needed was food.

* * *

. . .

I was so fucking hungry. My stomach twisted in a sharp jab of pain as if spurring me on to find something to eat. The only thing I had come across was questionable berries and mushrooms. The memory of the mistake I had made with not purifying my water caused me to quickly push aside any temptations at playing Russian roulette with the plant life here. I wasn't geared up for this woodsman, hunter crap. I had no knowledge of what was safe to eat or even how to hunt. I doubted very much that my crowbar would make for a good hunting tool anyhow.

I trudged on, my stomach somersaulting in a sickening jolt. I had been trying to trick it by filling it with clean water but the past few times I had chugged enough to stop its grumbling it had vengefully pushed me to vomit up a mixture of water and bile. I slogged on, my legs unsteady. I knew living in forest was going to be tough but with that other group about venturing into towns was too much of a risk, especially now I was alone.

Pa, Matt, Caitlyn, Bellamy- all of them, gone and dead. How was it I was the only one left to survive this shit? The outbreak of the epidemic, people coming to grips with the harsh reality of the infection, the bombing of Atlanta- everything. Thanks to the others I was still alive. I had to try and continue. It made their deaths seem all the less pointless that way. A bubbled of bitter laughter spilled from my lips. It quickly morphed into a sob. What was the point? My foot slipped on a rock masked by the dead leaves and I crashed to my knees my hands quickly shoving against the ground so I didn't smack my head.

I slowly pulled myself up to sit back on my heels. I frowned hard. My eyes ran over the small form a couple of times before I actually spurred my body to scramble up and go investigate. It wasn't moving. A thin noose of wire was biting tightly into its neck. My fingers slowly outstretched and stroked the brown-grey fur of the rabbit. It didn't move much but its nose flared and back legs flinched.

"Shit." I muttered.

I pulled the crowbar from my belt and took a firm grasp of it. Poor bastard, I wondered how long it had been fighting against that snare. I brought the curved end of the weapon down on its head with as much might as I could muster so I didn't have to repeatedly whack it. I guess this death would have been quicker than if a Rotter had got it. I fiddled for a few long minutes attempting loosen the wire from its neck. After spitting curses at it, I managed to get the rabbit free. I quickly snatched it up and headed back to my camp. Coming across that snare was lucky but it didn't calm any growing doubts I had about the location of my camp. A snare meant people were nearby.

* * *

. . .

The forest may have shielded me from the sun but the growing humid warmth was still turning the air into a thick smog. I continued on, swatting at the occasional bug that would attempt to land on any exposed skin, the crowbar held casually in my other hand. The wound on my leg had finally healed. The only evidence that it had been there was the pink blotch of new skin mottling my usual skin tone. I still walked with a slight limp, proving my tumble from the bike must have knocked the limb pretty damn hard. I favoured my left leg for the time being hoping in time that too would heal.

I was settling into a routine, which hadn't been interrupted by any wandering Rotters for many days now. I guess the majority of them were still in the city. I was doing what I did every couple of days, checking the snare I had come across not long ago to see if it had caught anything. My attempts at butchery were getting better. The first time I had gutted and skinned a rabbit was horrendous. I had made such a mess of it looked like a Dead Head had been gnawing on it.

I strolled on, pausing occasionally to get my bearings and make sure there were no lurking threats. A low groan rasped out. My hands flinched into fists around the length of my weapon as my eyes flitted about my surroundings. It came again, softer this time. I moved in its direction, slowly, carefully, seems as I still couldn't see the Rotter making the noise. As I passed a thick trunk of a pine tree I caught a glimpse in my peripheral vision. Two bodies locked together. A woman was on her back, leaves tangled in her long dark hair. However my attention snapped to the Rotter upon her, his face buried into her pubic bone.

The woman's hands where at his head, his shoulders, weakly grasping. Panic flared up in me. I charged forward, crowbar raised, a frightened yelp my war cry. To my shock the two jerked apart and the Rotter quickly pulled a pistol on me. I slammed to a stop, losing my footing and falling back on my butt, crowbar clattering to the dirt. Some cavalry I was. My eyes flickered back and forth between the two. The guy looked pissed, the woman mortified as she moved to hurriedly rearrange her jeans.

"Jesus Christ! What you think you're doin' running up like that? I almost shot you!" He growled finally lowering the gun.

"I- I thought you were one of those things." I stammered. I turned to the flustered woman hoping she'd be easier to convince. "I thought he was eating you."

I cringed at my choice of words as she got to her feet, brushing dirt from her shirt in hope to hide her humiliation. I scrambled up, opting to leave my weapon on the floor to show I wasn't a threat. I must have scared the shit out of them, but then anyone dumb enough to be going at it in woods with Coffin Dodgers about was pretty much was asking for trouble.

"'The hell did you come from?" The guy asked. Though he no longer had his gun aimed at me it was still in hand, safety off. He was big, well-built with dark hair and dark eyes which were narrowed in suspicion. "We've had some of our group up and down this wood and they ain't come across anyone."

"My camp's a fair ways back, over there." I gestured behind me with a vague flick of my hand. "I'm out hunting, trying to find food."

"With a crowbar?" He snorted before locking eyes with me again "You alone?"

"Naw, there's a few of us." I lied, attempting to hold his stare. I could feel sweat begin to bead on my upper lip. I needed to get out of this situation and quick. He was asking too many questions. I probably would have had less hassle if he actually had been a Rotter chewing on some unlucky woman. "I should really head back." My movements were slow and deliberate as I bowed down to pick up my crowbar not wanting to give him reason to take aim again.

"Judging by the looks of you, ya group can't be doing too good." He holstered the gun and crossed his arms.

"We're managing. It's not exactly Disneyland out here." I shrugged.

"How many of you are there?" He took a step closer causing me to instinctively take a few back, my fingers curling tighter around the metal weapon in my mitts.

"That's enough, Shane." The woman stepped forward, placing a hand on one of his thick arms. He turned his head from me to look down at her. She glanced over at me. "Sorry, we just haven't seen any other people since this whole thing started. I was beginning to think we were all that was left." She drifted a few steps from the guy's side towards me, hands calmly held up to show she meant no harm. "Look, I know times are tough right 'bout now so why don't you come on back to our camp and we talk some, get you sorted out."

"What-? Lori!" He shushed.

She turned back and in a quick hushed burst in hope I wouldn't catch snatches of it, she said:

"Shane, look at her. You and I both know she's lyin' through her teeth, she's scared."

He glanced up and over her head at me. His eyes wandered over my form taking in the ripped and stained clothes, unwashed hair, sallow complexion and dark ringed eyes. I probably looked as bad as a Rotter. Nerves urged me to shift my weight slightly onto my left leg so I could get away quicker if I needed bolt.

"So, what? we just take her back to camp- after she saw us together! How we know we can trust her?" He hissed in reply.

"I don't wanna join you guys. Like I said, I got my own group." I interrupted, moving to leave.

"Wait. We've got a big camp, not far from here, near a quarry."

"Goddamn it!" Muttered the guy, a hand raking through his hair in annoyance at her for giving away their location. She shot him a sharp glare before continuing on.

"There's plenty of us, we all pull together. There's families, women, children. We're good people. Come with us."

"Can't. I gotta get back." I took another step back, shaking my head.

"You're the one stealing from our snares." The man said shifting the topic onto dicer grounds seems as I had bluntly declined her invitation. "The guy who checks them reckons someone had been tampering with 'em, stealing the kill and trying to reset the trap. Gotta be you if there ain't anyone else round here."

"We're not mad." The woman was quick to smooth over any glimmer of a threat in his words, "Think on it some if you have to. We'll be at the quarry if you change your mind."

I backed up a little more before turning on my heel and scuttling off, casting the occasional glance over my should to be sure they wouldn't follow.


End file.
